


Wax On, Jerk Off

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fluff and Crack, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Oil, Waxing, hot power top jack rollins, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4757801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock emphatically does not want to go on a mission in Malta without being beach-ready. What can a man do when his favourite waxing technician is unavailable? Jack steps into the breach, with predictable results. I am so sorry for writing this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wax On, Jerk Off

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Смазать, прижать, отодрать](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529927) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



‘This is fuckin’ ridiculous!’ Brock yelled, slamming his cell phone down on the kitchen table. From the lounge, next door, Jack made a non-committal noise. Brock chose to interpret it as a question. ‘Belinda can’t fit me in for two weeks. _Two weeks_ , Jack!’

‘Hmm,’ Jack said, and Brock distinctly, _distinctly_ , heard the turning of a page, as if what he was saying was somehow less interesting than Jack’s book on early avionics and the development of collision-avoidance systems. He put his head round the door.

‘In two weeks we’ll be in Malta, Jack. We leave next week.’

‘Sure do.’

‘And that’s a _disaster_.’

‘We’ll be working,’ Jack said absently, turning the book towards the light to view an illustration that looked like a technical schematic.

‘We won’t be working the entire time, and Malta has beaches. How can I show up on beaches looking like a bear?’

‘I dunno, put your shorts on and arrive?’

‘Yeah, right,’ Brock snorted, ‘some of us have aesthetic standards, okay?’ Jack’s eyebrow raise would have put the fear of God into a lesser man, but Brock was fairly adept at telling which of Jack’s moods were truly dangerous, and so he ignored it.

‘Can’t you do it yourself?’ Jack asked.

‘Some people do, but I always go to Belinda. She’s very good.’

‘Hah,’ said Jack. ‘I should think so, at a hundred bucks a visit. Jesus.’

‘It’s the _experience_ ,’ Brock tried to explain, but he knew it was futile. Jack didn’t understand the pleasures of being pampered. He wasn’t really a tactile creature, couldn’t imagine the simple delight of having oneself waxed and massaged and made much of by a team of gentle-voiced, soft-fingered women. Jack wasn’t into women. Neither was Brock, really, but the ladies at the Pink Orchid were into _him_ , liked his muscles and his scars and his harmless flirtation. What greater joy than to come home after days or weeks away, fighting for one’s life in a fog of gun smoke and radio chatter and stinking male bodies, and drift in a calming haze of quiet, female voices and soothing treatments?

Westfahl once said it was gay. Once. Westfahl had _not_ enjoyed healing that broken eye socket. Westfahl also did not typically enjoy the sensuous feeling of pulling on silk boxers over smooth skin so, whichever way you looked at it, Brock won.

‘Duct tape,’ Jack said into his book with poorly-repressed mirth.

‘It’s a good thing you’ve got a big dick,’ Brock snapped, and retreated back into the kitchen to call the salon again and see if maybe, _maybe_ , Belinda could cancel someone with a need less pressing than his own. Jack’s earthy chuckle followed him.

Belinda, it transpired upon further inquiry over the next two days, had had the exceedingly inconvenient idea of getting married in Hawaii, which meant that her calendar was packed with faithful clients jockeying desperately for her services before she left for a fortnight. Brock had not called in time. The revelation had caused a stream of bad language that even Jack found excessive; he had disappeared out, so Brock was left to stew in his foul mood. Eventually, he supposed, he would have to pick another beautician, and _make do_ , and have his routine spoiled, and probably contract some kind of disagreeable skin infection into the bargain.

The last thing Brock expected was for Jack to reappear with a vicious smirk and a pale green bag and suggest, apparently in all seriousness, that _he_ act as interim waxing technician.

‘You have _got_ to be joking,’ said Brock.

‘How hard can it be?’ Jack asked. ‘I watched a thing on YouTube.’

‘I’m not— you’re not— this is the worst idea you’ve had since the incident with the trampoline and the razor wire in—’

‘Three years and you’re still bringing up Veracruz.’ Jack folded his arms, in the way that told Brock he was planning on digging in his heels. ‘What if I said I was into the idea?’

‘ _Are_ you?’

‘How will I know unless you let me try?’ Jack said, with shameless gall. ‘Who’s that guy you read – smug little prick with a radio show – he’s always saying you gotta be good, giving and gay?’

‘ _Game_ ,’ Brock corrected. He let himself seethe for a moment; damn Jack and his habit of occasionally listening.

‘Yeah, that. You’re not being very game right now.’

‘Fine,’ said Brock, ‘but I want it on record that this is a bad idea.’

Which is how Brock ended up lying on a towel over their bed while Jack whistled merrily and stirred a pot of hot wax, which he definitely had no call even being near, let alone preparing for application to human skin. Brock had liberally coated his skin in baby powder and briefed Jack in minute detail; still, there was something deeply unnerving about Jack’s toothy smile, and his eagerness to get started. Jack was, after all, one of Hydra’s finest interrogators. Brock had _seen things_.

‘Right,’ said Jack, giving the wax a final stir. ‘Let’s give this a shot.’ The first touch of hot wax on Brock’s skin made him jump, but Jack was deft and smoothed a fabric strip down over his chest in a way that really couldn’t be faulted. Then he ripped it off.

‘Jesus!’ Brock yelled, sitting up. ‘Close to the skin! Close to the fucking skin!’ Jack cackled and pushed him back down with a big hand on his solar plexus.

‘Don’t be a fucking pussy,’ he laughed, ‘or at least, not any more than you already are.’ He added more wax, ripped again, and Brock found himself trying not to make a sound. Jack had a heavy hand at this, but it was working. It was _fine_. If Jack wanted to play this game, Brock would go along with it and refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing him squeal. The third strip went right over his left nipple, though, and Brock couldn’t help the way he jolted and grunted deep in his throat as Jack snapped it off with vicious glee. Nor could he help the hot wave that rolled through his body right afterward, when Jack leaned down and licked over the smooth skin, over his nipple, wet and lingering.

Wax on, smooth, rip. Wax on, smooth, rip. If he wasn’t gentle, Jack had least at the benefit of being consistent. Brock breathed through his nose and stared at a fixed point on the ceiling as Jack worked, trying very hard not to think about the quiet, luxurious salon and Belinda’s masterful hands. As Jack finished his chest and worked his way down, Brock became peripherally aware of the damp heat Jack’s hands were throwing off. He looked up just as Jack ran his palm down Brock’s thigh, working out how to style his pubic hair with a distinctly lustful expression on his face.

‘Low on the top,’ Brock told him, snapping Jack out of whatever perverse little daydream he was indulging in. ‘And the sides, along here.’ He ran his index finger down, down along by his cock.

‘I know how you like it,’ said Jack, and Brock’s throat was suddenly thick, his dick suddenly stirring.

‘This is actually turning you on, isn’t it?’ Brock said in somewhat hypocritical disbelief. Jack laughed.

‘It’s– you look good,’ said Jack, his voice thick. He pinched Brock’s cheekbone. ‘You got this comeflush on you.’ Brock did; he could feel it. His skin was hot, hot where Jack had waxed it, hot up his neck and face from Jack seeing him like this. He could feel Jack’s body heat radiating out towards him, too. Christ. Had a man ever come from getting his junk waxed? Brock felt like he could be the first.

He watched Jack slowly reheating the wax with a lighter under the glass jar, the way he heated up a knife, sometimes. The wax was a little too hot when Jack stroked it down onto the tender skin of his groin, and Brock’s eyes rolled back in his head. He felt suddenly alive to the possibilities inherent of hot wax. The flash of pain as Jack tore the thin strip of fabric off his skin was sharper this time, but Brock was used to it, knew how it was going to feel. He anticipated the burn, rolled with it. He was more than half hard now, on the knife’s edge between lust and exquisite pain.

‘Three more,’ said Jack, and it was; a sharp tug across his balls and then two lower, making his cock twitch, and then Jack was wiping his sweating hands on his jeans and throwing all the bits of fabric in a heap. Brock ran his hands over his chest, his groin, dipped his fingers lower. It was a decent job – more than decent, in fact. He’d venture to say that nobody but him would notice the difference. He gazed up at Jack, red and aroused above him.

‘Nearly done,’ said Jack, licking his lower lip and reaching for a bottle of baby oil. He didn't bother pouring it onto his hand first, he just upended the bottle and let the oil trickle down Brock's chest and belly, rolling in pale gold lines down his thighs and cock as he propped himself up on his elbows to watch. Jack ran his hands down Brock's body, trailed them smooth and slick over his skin and rubbed in the oil. Brock was sparking, electric, skin buzzing under Jack's touch; when Jack gave his cock a firm, lingering stroke Brock groaned and arched up off the bed. 'God,' said Jack in a thick voice, and picked up the bottle again, squeezing it until the oil tickled its warm way down Brock's ribs.

'Kiss me,' demanded Brock, stretching up, and Jack cupped a wet hand around his throat and licked at his mouth, playing his tongue over Brock's lips.

‘Greedy,’ Jack said against Brock’s mouth. He laughed low in his throat in a rumble and pushed Brock down onto his pillow by the throat, chasing his lips down to kiss him again.

‘Fuck,’ Brock said, and he grabbed Jack by the shoulders and dragged him down onto the bed.

‘Clothes,’ mumbled Jack, awkwardly twisting to pull off his shirt and then working on his belt, hands fouling up with Brock’s as they both tried to strip his jeans off. They panted for a while, desperate and struggling against the slickness of their skin. Jack had his leg braced on the floor, until Brock tugged him down into a mess of limbs and oil and naked skin sliding on skin.

‘Jesus,’ Brock moaned as their bodies slid together, careless of grace or care or anything but raw need. Jack was rubbing their cocks together with long thrusts of his hips. With his tender, bare skin, Brock could feel everything in excruciating clear detail.

‘You like that,’ breathed Jack rhetorically, pinning his arms down at the elbow with savage glee and fucking against him with barely-restrained desperation. ‘C’mon, tell me you like it. Fucking tell me.’ Brock bit his lips showily, tipped his head back and Jack took the bait, yes, _yes,_ bit at his neck and growled at him. ‘Tell me you like it when I hurt you. Tell me you like it when I fuck you.’ He ground his hips down, leaning on Brock so hard that he could barely breathe. His head swam.

‘I like it,’ he gasped, ‘fuck, I like it—more, c’mon,’ and he pressed up against Jack’s cock, tensing up his legs, holding his breath, wanting it, trying to get just the right pressure then _fuck_ , there; he screwed his eyes closed and came with a rush of breath, twisting under the weight of Jack’s big body. He bit down on the meat of Jack’s shoulder, vicious in his aftershocks, and Jack cursed and panted and reached down with a hand to finish himself off. Jack let himself fall right on top of Brock, afterwards, dozy and slow like he always was after he came.

‘Bet your little girls at the salon don’t do that for you,’ he said sleepily into Brock’s neck.

‘Bet they _would_. Bet they _want_ to,’ said Brock, needling Jack, poking at his jealousy. Jack yawned and adjusted himself more comfortably with one arm thrown up on the pillow. He scratched at Brock’s scalp for a moment, casually affectionate like a big cat.

‘Any of ‘em touch you like that, I’ll cut their tiny hands off,’ he said, and then promptly fell asleep.


End file.
